In Which Amalia And Chelsea Go Swimming, Are Right, And Arrive For The Tour.

We left the hostel at nine and spent the morning swimming in a waterfall. 

The Spanish word for 'waterfall' is catarata, which is fun to say.

The first was enormous. I climbed into the spray and it felt like I was being thumped in the head with heavy pillows.

We got confused and the Canadian boys moved slowly, so it was a while before we made it to the second, smaller waterfall. Off of which we wanted to jump.

I asked a swimming man how to jump it, and he said he didn't know, but a boy nearby seemed to. We asked for his help. Actually, what we said was,

Tu primero.

Darling Juan is probably 14. 

He swam Chelsea and I to the base of the falls (boys were still onshore, drinking and pretending they weren't nervous about jumping).

Juan climbed and helped pull me up. Chelsea decided to wait a while.

Juan and I jumped from low, then a little higher, but when I asked about the top, he said,

Es peligrosa.

He looked scared. 

The Canadians swam out and immediately stormed the top rocks. Juan hesitantly followed.

They jumped.

I jumped.

Finally, with much trepidation, Juan jumped.

We cheered, and he grinned.

Later, we saw him with the man from earlier.

Es tu papa?

Silence. A confused nod from the father.

Chelsea said,

Wait. I think you just called that man a potato.

And indeed, I had.

The final stop of the day was Ocotal Beach, black sand bordering the Pacific. Renowned sunset views. Long, long car ride. 

In the end, there were too many clouds to see the sun. I went for a walk along the beach. The sand felt like velvet. I played chicken with the waves.

When I came back to the group, a fight had broken out.

I'm just saying, no one needs to see a full-grown man in a tutu. 

Chelsea is a human rights activist and the Canadians were saying very stupid, illogical things. It was messy. Finally, Steve called a truce and we drove home in some kind of silence, the Montreal boys speaking rapid French in the front.

Later, on our bus ride to the eerily posh hotel where we meet our group tomorrow morning, Chelsea said,

I really didn't start it.

But I would have been proud if she had.

Tutus for everyone.

In Which Amalia And Chelsea Arrive In Liberia And Make Some New Friends

We were told that the free breakfast would be good. They said that. What they did not say was five kinds of homemade bread, fresh fruit, delicious rice with eggs, beans, potatoes in huge silver vats, real passionfruit juice and, inexplicably, tiny slices of gourmet chocolate cake and other impossibly small delicacies. 

We were, needless to say, pleased with our hotel.

Our ultimate goal today: Get to Liberia, where our monkey tour starts. 

In total, we must cross San Jose, navigate the bus terminal, voyage through the mountains, land (mapless) in Liberia, locate a hostel, and procure lodgings.

It seems unrealistic.

1. Cross San Jose.

Avenieda 7 spans the city from north to south. We see El Parque National, with it's drooping bird-of-paradises. We see La Casa Amarillo, a colonial leftover. And then, there's REAL San Jose. Brightly painted tin roofs, rotting food in the gutter, men staring you down and winking caddishly, broken glass, barbed wire.

2. Navigate The Bus Terminal.

La Pulmitan! A mirage after our botched but charming encounter with a cocos frios saleswoman! Our bus terminal is in sight.

Cuando es la proxima bus para Liberia?

A las doce.

Bueno. Dos... Um... Tickets.

Our bags are too big, but we jam them where our feet should go because the guidebook said not to leave them, even for a bus ride.

3. Voyage Through The Mountains.

Here we go. The bus ride is constant curves and vistas. Ravine, cliff, mountain, river. Ravine, river, forest, mountain.

We read from our Spanish phrasebook and quiz each other.

There are two beautiful young people next to us.

Ah! A field! Un campo! 

I say.

Y esta es un caballo!

I say.

The young boy turns to me. 

No,

He says, in English,

Those are cows.

Daniel and Isabella are word-perfect. They're cousins from San Jose, probably 13 years old. Their grandpa lives in Miami. They've been to Miami.

They play an English-language game on Daniel's iPhone and sing Christmas carols in English under their breath for over an hour.

Xhave yourself a merry leetle chreesmaaaas...

I love them and will for all time. I grinned the whole ride.

4. Land (Mapless) In Liberia.

We are shocked at our success.

Daniel, is there a downtown?

Yes, but it's... How do you... Ugly.

We find a Soda (cafeteria) immediately outside the bus station. It is delicious and the woman speaks only Spanish with us. We are in heaven.

5. Locate A Hostel.

We ask for directions. We get three different sets. We walk to the highway in confusion. The hostels, in actuality, are only four blocks from the bus station.

6. Procure Lodgings.

Steve, the bro from Toronto (Canada has bros??) goes with us to get bug spray. Other Daniel is from Los Angeles. We drink rum and mango juice in the backyard. We learn that lizards chirp.

Juan Paulo joins us. Juan Paulo is from Costa Rica. He only speaks Spanish. Chelsea and I speak to Juan Paulo in Spanish from 8 to 12.

He has to stay in hostels because of low salary but everyone else always speaks English and his conversations are short. He has an eight-year-old daughter and takes off his wedding ring during a trip inside. He asks where my boyfriend is.

He asks how we can travel without our boyfriends and not be afraid.

I tell him if I were afraid, I wouldn't get to live. I am angry and sad.

Two men from Montreal show up. Jesus, the hostel owner, pulls Chelsea and I aside.

Ladies, you know the big waterfall?

Yes.

They have a car.

We befriend the new Canadians. Tomorrow, we will go to the big waterfall and return in the evening to meet the rest  of our monkey tour group.

This, then, is backpacking.

Mealy Cyrus

This was in my hair this morning.

It's a mealy bug.

In Which Amalia And Her Friend Chelsea Arrive In Costa Rica

Our flight was at 5:15 am. WHO DOES THAT? And in Chicago, renowned mass transit mecca, that means the trip starts at 2:30. AM.

There was a terrible storm the night before and we hoped our flight would be delayed, but it wasn't, and we are ladies outside of time, so 45 minutes after we HAD TO LEAVE, we called an Uber (basically an underground cab service).

The driver of our heavily perfumed motor coach was named Raoof. Raoof was pleasant and competent, and he'd been driving all night, through the terrible storm, in his sweet little Altima.

We were making decent time and chatting pleasantly until Meechum, near the River Road exit. Then traffic stopped because the road was flooded. We started panicking as the minutes crept by, and I started using bike logic to find alternate routes, and ultimately we were proclaiming our doomed trip, but Raoof stayed calm and rational.

No, ladies. Do not worry. You will fly today.

 

And that magnificent man was right. We forded the huge pond and were golden.

Eight stiff, tense, weary hours later, we arrived in San Jose, Costa Rica, greeted by yelling cabbies and thick, rich winds from the mountainous rainforest. 

Our hangriness almost got the best of us, but I, personally, was shocked into silence by the landscape. And after we got some gallos pintos y huevos con tomate and agua frescas in our bellies, everything seemed manageable.

We've basically spent the day walking around, drinking and eating all kinds of fruit, accosting people with broken Spanish, and I think I bought a bottle of pure DEET? Woof. Raoof. 

Tomorrow brings Liberia and the start of our tour. 

OUR MONKEY TOUR.

An Appalachian Popsicle

Sunday, March 3rd.
11 p.m.

I am inside a shelter. Aside from my sleeping bag, I am wearing a coat and two jackets, three pairs of wool socks and two pairs of sock liners, two long-sleeved shirts, two pairs of leggings, sweatpants and heavy duty rain pants, two pair gloves, a balaclava and a ski cap. I am utterly freezing and recently realized I need to urinate.

It begins.

Appalachian Details

This all gets real Sunday, March 4th. My itinerary puts me on Baxter Peak (Northern terminus of the trail) on August 21st. Send me unlimited bug-repelling thoughts, please.



Who's okay with dreadlocks? Can I still come to Christmas?

One Month out from thru-hiking the Appalachian Trail

Dear friends and family,

Here follows my official will. The last time I wrote a will, I was drunkenly throwing up at my first college party. I may be even more serious about this one.

Honestly, this is a very difficult thing to write, because I actually don't have anything of value. But I figure Margie gets my money because I probably owe it to her anyway, and my friends and family get first dibs on my stuff. The rest gets taken to the Salvo on Devon street, because good people shop there. DO NOT leave it in Springfield. Pearls before swine.

Now. I don't want a funeral, and ideally, I'd like to be either dropped whole in the ocean or in the woods somewhere close-ish to humanity so that I can freak out a morning jogger and inspire a huge investigation/investigation movie/spin-off series, hopefully ending with me having some cool nickname like, "The Grey Dahlia" or the... some pun on The Black Dahlia. So be sure to leave, like, a dog-eared copy of Hamlet beside me. If not that, cremation and everyone has to wear the ashes in a vial around their neck forever.

In terms of remembrance, there should be a big memorial tea party on each coast and a fund should be set up for struggling actresses in their 20's. We're seriously underfunded.

The nitty gritty.

If I:

Am poisoned by something I eat - NO FOOD is to be served at the memorial.

Contract a terrible disease:
               From the water - My water filter is to be burned and thrown off a cliff.
               From a bug bite - Everyone at the memorial receives citronella plants and is urged to just eat some with every meal.

Am eaten by a(n):

      Bear - Ironic, since bears are my favorite animal. Also extremely likely. A campaign against bears is to be started. Not pro-bear awareness. Against bears.

       Mountain lion - See above. Minus the part about my favorite animal, swapping word "bear" with "lion."

       Other- If it's a person, they should be forced to regurgitate me. If it's a moose or something that's            never eaten anyone before, that's actually pretty cool. No repercussions against animal.

Am killed by a serial killer - Hm. This is a tricky one. I guess I want unbridled vengeance... I think you all can work together on that, or hire someone. Up to you. Then, once the person IS caught and the gruesome details released, I want a few people to write touching memoirs and then we're back to the movie/spin-off series.

Die of hypothermia - Sue Marmot, everyone at memorial gets extremely warm blanket.

Die of heat stroke -   Memorial is REALLY WARM. Because this would be the worst way to go. Cold is terrible, but heat stroke? No mercy. Crank the thermostat.


Get hit by lightning - A lot of very bad puns.

Am smashed by cascading rocks - Everyone... gets... a pillow? An ICEPACACK. Everyone gets icepacks in the memorial gift bag.

Fall off a mountain - Campaign against mountains.

Break one/all limbs and slowly starve to death - Memorial service feast!

Die of dehydration - Memorial service in a swimming pool, ashes sprinkled in water fountain.


If my death is caused by something else,  just make sure I don't have a stupid memorial service. That's the bottom line.